


Food for Worms

by Queenjoker



Category: Magisterium Series - Holly Black & Cassandra Clare
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pushing Daisies AU, i just need more AUs for these two ok, its gonna be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-09 00:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10399245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenjoker/pseuds/Queenjoker
Summary: Call discovers he has a gift: To bring back people from the dead with a single touch.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Literally this is just a Pushing Daisies AU.
> 
> Sorry if it seems too close to the actual show, but i swear it will start to diverse from it in the later chapters. If i ever get to them. Whoops.

It was on a sunny day in Asheville, North Carolina--the kind of weather that brought out birds, squirrels and little boys with their dogs alike out to play--when Callum Hunt (approximately 9 years, 27 weeks) realized he was not like other children. He was on a walk with his dog, Havoc, who was 3 years, 2 weeks and not a minute older for on that exact day, Havoc was run over by a truck on the road.

Distraught, Call reached out and touched his then-dead dog only to be pleasantly surprised when Havoc sprung right back up as if having been simply woken up from a nap.

Approximately 60 seconds later, two trees away, a squirrel dropped dead from its tree.

Indeed, he was not like anyone at all. 

What young Call realized that day was that he could touch dead things and bring them back to life. It was a gift given by no one in particular; neither his mother nor his father would ever be able to give Call any guidance on this strange new power. There were no instructions and no definite manual for its usage.

It just was.

And what it was, was of no concern to him at all at that moment, because as he looked outside the window, he saw his best friend across the street. His name was Aaron Stewart, and he was approximately 9 years, 46 weeks young.

With a head full of blonde locks and green eyes that shone brighter than any marble he had ever owned, Aaron took Call's attention more times than he could count. Call, you see, has had a bad leg since he was a baby and to other kids in their neighborhood, that meant Call would be no fun at all. They never invited him to any games, and at times, flat out refused to talk to him. So Call did what Callum Hunt did best and terrified the other kids with pranks and snarky remarks. It helped that Havoc was big enough to be mistaken for a wolf by the kids and loved to give a good chase whenever Call said he could.

Aaron, however, never saw Call’s leg as a limit. He was kind, yes. Polite to offer help here and there, yes. But unlike the other kids and ultimately other adults, he understood the very basics of what Call was: a kid that just wanted to play.

So played, they did.

Call couldn't ever think of Aaron being born, hatched or conceived in any way the way everyone else was. From the bottom of his heart, Call believed that Aaron came straight from the stories of princes and princesses, adventurous quests, and magical forests, with fire-breathing dragons to boot.

The fire-breathing dragon, mind you, was Callum and in their imaginations, Call and the boy named Aaron, fought side by side and conquered the world together.

He told him so, during their playtime.

“So I’m a prince?” Aaron asked, looking around at the toys on their laps. “What if I want to be a dragon too?”

At that Call shrugged. Who was he to deny  _two_ dragons terrorizing their imaginary kingdom? 

Even after their play dates had long ended, Call was still stuck in that imaginary world with Aaron.

Up until a blood vessel in his mother's head burst and killed her instantly.

Unmistakably shaken, Call repeated what he had done to his dog, Havoc, only hours earlier and tapped his mother back to life. She blinked her eyes open and smiled at Call, laughing off that the reason she was on the floor to her most likely slipping.  

"How clumsy. Did the timer go off yet?" she asked Call as she stood up and continued baking her pie as if nothing happened.

Nervous but not knowing what else he could've done or said, Call sat back down and looked outside the window once more. It was then that Call came to understand that his gift that was, had a condition or two.

For his gift not only gave.

It took.

From the moment Call heard the timer’s  _ding_ and saw Aaron’s mother drop dead, he knew. Call could only bring back the dead to life without any consequences for one minute. Any longer than that then someone else had to die.

What it came down to, as Call understood it, was this: he had traded his mother's life for Aaron's mother.

But that wasn't the only caveat for his particular gift.

"Come on Call, time for bed," his mother called as nighttime came and a mysterious car rolled in front Aaron's house. It was as his mother tucked him in, gave him a _good night, sleep tight_ and kissed him on the forehead, that Call learned the second condition:

The first touch gave life.

The second touch took it away, permanently.

As he sat beside his mother dead on the ground, he shook from head to toe as he tried again and again to bring her back once more. It was all in vain, unfortunately.

In a whirl of events in the days that followed after, both Call and Aaron were swallowed up by their respective mother's funerals, never having any chances of seeing each other at all.

Alistair, Call's father, after a brief mourning period would send Call away from their family--then consisting only of Alistair, Call, and Havoc--out of Asheville, North Carolina and to a boarding school for his own supposed safety. Aaron, having no father nor any other relatives to live with would be moved into the foster system and juggled from one foster home to another.

It was only during the actual burial of their mothers did the two children, these best of friends, filled with grief, curiosity, and hormones, held each other’s hands tightly and shared their first and only kiss together. 

It was light, careful, and fleeting. The kind of kiss shared between kids that didn't know much more beyond the need to be close to one another.

After his mother’s death, Call avoided any social and emotional attachments with anyone, in fear of losing yet another loved one. People called him antisocial, a troubled kid, and a conglomerate of other titles adults loved giving to children they didn’t want to deal with.

So he focused on pies.

In boarding school, due to his leg, he was rarely ever given any chance to participate in physical activities. The school didn’t even bother handing him an official P.E. uniform. Therefore, during gym time he would sneak into the kitchen instead to bake pies by the dozen. Although originally, he did this thinking he’d be closer to his mother, by the time he was to graduate from the boarding school, he had every student lining up for his pies.

Therefore, 15 years, 34 weeks later, otherwise known as present time, Call had become the Pie-maker.

 

__

 

Call made pies as the owner of the bakery called  _Pie-hole_ , (“ _Yes Celia, I think it’s a perfectly_ _fine_   _name for it. I’m 24, I think I know what’s allowed to be called a pie-hole and what’s not.”_ ) where--due to his magic touch--the fruits were always ripe as long as he only ever touched it once.

Call was in the process of making another one for the day, focused on trimming the edges of the crust, as he let Celia handle the customers. Celia, long-time neighbor and co-worker, (and, if Call looked beyond Celia’s attempts at flirting with him, he could even call her a  _friend_ ) could be heard moving back and forth across the shop, talking animatedly and taking the customers’ orders.

One such customer sat beside the window, her dark suit in contrast to the bakery’s pastel color theme. She looked up at Call and raised her cup at him.

There was only one person that knew of Call’s secret and her name was Tamara Rajavi. A private investigator, she was chasing a perpetrator across rooftops when she first came across Call and his ability. The perp, running out of options, had tried to make a jump to the next building only to have missed by mere inches and consequently plunged to his death. Grumbling over more work she’d have to do now, Tamara had looked over the ledge to see where she would have to pick up the dead body when she saw a peculiar event unfold. 

The perp crashed into the trash bin with a crack loud enough to be heard a block over, and Tamara labeled him a goner just as the supposed-dead man bounced off the trash bin and into a confused Call that had just been out to empty the trash at the time. A simple touch and the man blinked his eyes open once more.

A miracle.

He took off the next second.

Call cursed but managed to throw one of his garbage bags onto the perp, causing him to topple over and allowing Call to limp over and touch the man once more.

As Tamara watched the dead-again perp go limp at Call’s touch, slack-jawed, she thought of a wonderful idea.

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Call asked in a hushed tone, looking around nervously. It was nighttime, and the bakery had already closed for the day, leaving only Call, Celia, Havoc and Tamara as its sole occupants. But Call didn’t live the past 15 years in near isolation for nothing. He casted the private investigator a Look.

She gave him one right back.

“A partnership, Mr. Hunt,” she repeated, finding it tiring having to do so. After all, she explained to him, murders were much easier to solve when one can simply ask the victims who killed them. Call reluctantly agreed.

“It’s Call, by the way,” he offered, recalling how he only ever heard ‘Mr. Hunt’ from his teachers towards Alistair and even then, his old man didn’t seem too comfortable with it either. If Alistair lived his life being known by his first name alone, then Call could too, he figured.

Tamara was an intimidating figure, clad in her dark suit which spoke of business but on the other hand, her gold earrings reminded Call of his old textbooks and the ancient Queens often depicted in them. So when she jutted her chin out and managed to look down on him despite the fact that they were pretty close in height, Call had the distinct feeling of needing to look down.

“Tamara. Tamara Rajavi.”

Even her name sounded like it was royalty.

“And I’m Celia!” A voice came from beside their table as a plate of pie was placed in front of the two, making Call jump. It would’ve looked ridiculous to anyone else, seeing how terrified Call seemed to be at the sight of the sudden piece of pie. “What brings you here, Tamara?”

From his peripheral view, he saw see the ends of Tamara’s mouth quirking up. “Just business with Call here.”

_Bad business_ , Call thought sourly,  _but business nonetheless_. You see, the Pie-hole was facing financial crisis. For some reason or another, people did not seem to need pie in their everyday life. Which, according to Celia, was a damn shame on their part. So in fact, a joint business on the side as Tamara offered was just what he needed to keep the bakery running. Like a gift quite literally dropping from the sky. Of course it didn’t mean he couldn’t be surly about aforementioned gift though.

At his name, Call nodded and then gave an apologetic smile to Celia. They made eye-contact, a silent argument ensuing at which she smiled for at least a minute straight before sighing. “I’ll lock the door behind me, I suppose?”

Call mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ towards her as she turned to go, leaving just the two plus Havoc alone in the bakery.

“So are you in or not?”

\--

He was in.

Well, to be exact, he was outside. Of his apartment. But he was definitely in the business with Tamara now. Having just finished their first case together (who would’ve thought it was the secretary’s dog, Warren, that mauled the 39-year-old man to death?) Call was exhausted. But earning $10,000 in one day was always a win-win for him on any day, so he forced himself up to his floor and to his neighbor’s door with little complaint.

He knocked only twice before the door opened to a flurry of thick dirty blonde hair.

“Hey Celia,” he said as Havoc barked in recognition inside her apartment.

“Call,” she replied back with a smile that made it hard for Call to look directly at her.

Due to their circumstances, Call couldn’t exactly bring Havoc everywhere with him, lest they accidentally touched. So the dog often found himself in their neighbor’s place instead, curled up together with Celia and watching T.V. Neither had any complaints about spending their nights like this, with the occasional ice cream on hand.

“How was…business?” she tested, wanting to see if Call would properly fill her in. She leaned close, and fluttered her eyes at him. Long ago, the action would do nothing more than result in a confused Call, inquiring if there was something in her eyes and if she wanted to wash it. However, even he couldn’t remain so dense to her actions forever, and saw her attempts to connect with him--who did everything he could to _disconnect_ \--as terrifying.

“Uhm, busy? How’s Havoc?”

For a moment, he saw her ever-present smile disappear only to come back once more. She let him come in and he bee-lined for his dog who sat up accordingly.

“Hey,” she called, her voice seemingly inquisitive, “Do you pet him?”

Startled by the sudden question, Call tried to stutter out an answer.

“I-I pet him. Of course I pet him. He’s my dog.”

Havoc barked in reply. He indeed was Call’s dog.

“…With a stick?”

“I’m allergic. To dogs. So yes, a stick might be involved. But I pet him.”

Celia scrunched up her face, honest worry forming.

“But do you touch him with affection?”

“I UH.” Call tried to look anywhere but at Celia who had inched closer with each question.

She kept up her gaze with him for another moment before seemingly relenting and backing away. “I’ll go get Havoc’s leash.”

As she left, Call thanked whatever god let him have this one, and looked guiltily at Havoc. “You don’t mind, right? That I don’t touch you?”

Havoc let out another bark, indication that no he didn’t mind.

It was during this reassertion between Call and Havoc that the event that would change everything came on the T.V.

“ _In other news, the body of a young man has been found dead behind a bowling alley. Sources say the man was most likely murdered. At this moment, the victim’s identity is being withheld…”_

Call watched, unable to turn his attention elsewhere as the TV showed a bowling alley so mundane that it could have been literally any bowling alley across the nation. He stood absolutely still as the camera zoomed in on a body being taken into an ambulance. One arm swung out of the cover and he could see there were marks on the wrist as if the man had been held by handcuffs of some sort for a long period of time.

At some point, Celia came back, and looped the leash around Call’s arm but still he couldn’t look away. He’d seen enough bloody deaths and accidents that could last a lifetime. His high tolerance for it was something he boasted to Tamara after all, and yet he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why this case that seemed so banal caught his attention.

_“Little is known of the victim. Although, they say he was traveling alone in a rundown car between Virginia and North Carolina. Reports originally claimed the death as an accident...”_

Even as he and Havoc returned to their apartment, Call was glued to the news, unable to look away until he heard a knock from the door. He looked through the peephole and caught sight of golden earrings and sharp eyes.

“Seen the news lately?” Tamara asked casually, lifting her cup of coffee to drink. They chose to talk in the bakery, despite it being closed.

“Mhmm,” he tried to reply just as casual, “Lot’s going on.”

“A lot’s going on concerning a dead man, you mean?”

“Really?” Call said, sipping from his own cup of tea. He liked the burning sensation running down his throat and the increased heart rate that made him feel like he would die any second now.

Tamara side-eyed him for a second before pulling out a piece of paper. “$50,000 worth for anything concerning that man, Call. You think you could chat this guy up?”

He never glanced at the paper, simply continuing to drink from his coffee of instant heart attack. “Maybe.”

“Well you better turn that ‘ _maybe’_ into a ‘ _yes’_ soon, because he’s going down under by tomorrow.”

His fingers twitched around his cup, almost spilling, but he managed to ask, “Where we going?”

“Asheville, North Carolina.” Then a beat later. “You ever been there, Call?”

There was something in her voice that reminded Call who he was talking to and to watch his words. That Tamara Rajavi was a Private Investigator for a reason and she was great with her questions.

“Kinda grew up there.”

And because he had to know, because there was an overwhelming sense of dread that wouldn’t leave him no matter how sarcastic and nonchalant he tried to be, he asked:

“The dead man. From Asheville. Did he have a name?”

Tamara stood up and looked at him from the side.

“Aaron Stewart.”

**Author's Note:**

> Again, sorry im really bad at dialogue   
> but also??? i need more interaction with Celia from literally everybody so?? she is def relevant


End file.
